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2013.03.23 - Madripoor Mayhem pt 4
A door swing opens, followed by Roy Harper. Today, he was dressed in blue jeans and a white cut-off sleeved t-shirt, showing off the Navajo tattoo around his arm. "Ta-da!" Roy proclaims to the woman following him. "My new apartment!" The apartment itself, in the poor side of Madripoor, it was about as expected. Cracked plaster, peeling wallpaper, a window for easy access to the fire escape, and crates for chairs and a table. A cheap bed, which somehow was -not- infected with bedbugs, was pulled down from the wall. "Cheap, no need to sign anything, and a bit more -at- home. Anything important I'm keeping over at the Black Lagoon, Contact's handling those. Location, nothing too fancy, easy escape... course, easy entrance too, but I can handle -that-... Contact thinks this place checks out. Whaddya think?" he asks, as he steps in, closing the door behind him, and motioning towards the locks on the door. "Triple-secure, slide lock, peephole. Any problems?" Not far behind the curiously enthusiastic archer stands Domino, the sleeves of her armored suit rolled up a quarter of the way and the front zip dropped a generous amount to let her skin breathe in the heat. Her shiny new magnum has earned itself a semi-permanent home low on her right thigh in a tac holster, complimenting the other three. She stands at an angle, leaning up against the doorframe with arms loosely folded in front of herself. One look is all it really takes. "I think you got ripped off," comes the direct response. "I don't care what you paid. Still too much. I suppose it's a step up from a bathtub, but only just." "You -could- just let me rent a place near you, if you're -that- exacting," Roy grumps. Still, the grin on his face indicates he wasn't being particularly serious, as he flops down on a crate. "I called in for Chinese. Join me, will you? Sesame chicken, General Tso's Beef, and then I'm headin' back to get my stuff moved in. You get any more news on the floatin' auction?" There's a knock on the door. "Delivery," a low voice says. "Ah, right on time," Roy says, as he gets up. Heading to the door, Roy checks the peephole, and then slides the lock open. Domino, however, might notice something else... namely, a faint noise, as of a safety going off, barely notable above the sound of the locks rattling. "And you -could- just go out there and rent a place without getting permission from me," Dom counters while stepping in and lightly kicking the door closed behind her. "It's not like it's a private block, Harper. Your money spends just as well as anyone else's. Get off your butt and score some better digs if you want. And can afford to." She sure as hell ain't paying! Hmm, the offer of Chinese is tempting. Last time she had that she was sitting around in Gotham with Kwabena. Good times for all, except the crack dealer. "Now that's just some -uncanny- timing--" A little too perfect, perhaps? Click. "Arsenal," she quickly says in a low tone, hoping that use of your codename might grab your attention more than if she just said 'Harper' again. The latter usually gets followed up with some manner of insult. All the same, Dom takes up position in clear shot of the door, body turned to present a smaller target as the shiny .44 comes up at arm's length, locking the hammer back with a trio of soft clicks of its own. Go ahead, open the door. First sign of trouble and they'll be scrubbing brain matter off of the wall two rooms in. Six shots. An unknown number of baddies. Automatic weapons. (Hey, they could use those!) With the initial onslaught that manages to make a lot of noise and cause a lot of damage, neither of the two get caught in the fire. One of the shooters goes down as soon as the door opens, the staccato of autofire prefixed by a single -KaBLAM!- of a magnum destroying one of their heads like an over-ripe melon, pasting gore across the door behind him. Then, much like the ghostly white skin might suggest, Domino's gone to cover. Like she was never there at all. As soon as their fire ceases she unrolls herself across the floor from behind a stack of crates, her arm held out across the floor as she lines up another shot for one of the thug's thighs. Femoral artery. All she has to do is drill one of them and a grown man will be dead within seconds. Ten, perhaps fifteen if her aim's off. It rarely is. KaBLAM! Dust scatters across the floor from the muzzle blast, the pale woman already moving back for cover before knowing what the shot claims. Muffled curses in a couple of languages, Italian and English, as the first two men were taken down before they'd even entered the room. Silently, Roy waits half a second, and then -kicks- the door hard just as the third man starts to enter while Domino pulls back. There was a satisfying -thud-, and then the door swings back open, and Roy steps around the door and fires, a non-lethal variety aimed intentionally at two thighs to knock the fourth man off his feet while the third was holding his head, flat on his butt in the hallway. And then a step back, to get out of the way of Domino so that she can take aim at... ..The fifth guy. Another window-rattling concussion rocks the room as Domino pegs a thug in the shoulder right as he's trying to duck out of the way, spinning him about and throwing his weapon aside from fingers that have gone completely numb. Three bullets, one baddie left standing, one with some minor head trauma thanks to Roy throwing the door at his face. He'll be the one left for questioning. Which leaves number six... Remember their initial formation. Spacial placement. The guy with the trashed shoulder is on the right, two in front center, two in back center. Only one place left for the last guy. "Sorry about your wall, Harper." Another deafening -slam- from the barrel, another instant flash of burnt powder, and a thumb-sized hole through the drywall simply appears along the left of the door. The man beyond takes it square in the chest, throwing him backward to the other side of the hall. "Still got Legs, Shoulder, and Lumpy out there. Make the call!" "Dibs on Lumpy and Legs!" Roy says as he presses against the door's exterior, waiting. As soon as Domino pulls her pistol back, Roy moves into the hallway. One swift kick to the face of the man whose head had been oh so nicely introduced to the door, followed by a -stomp- to keep him down. Foot still resting on the concussed man's face, Roy swings both Springfields towards the man shot in the legs, already moving into a kneeling position to avoid being shot where he was standing mere milli-seconds ago. One shot rings out, forcing the struggling man to drop his weapon, as a red fountain splurts out of the newly formed hole in his hand, and then the undercover SHIELD agent is already shifting, making room for... ..A pale mercenary on the run. Domino leaps out into the hall, clearing Roy, dead, and wounded to kick off of the opposite doorframe and spin about with her other leg, catching 'Shoulder' in the shoulder. Again. The shock to his system is enough to fill the air with the sound of a pained howl as he falls onto his back, the woman standing directly over him with the Smith and Wesson leveled at his head. At the head of the man that used to own this pistol, not even fourteen hours ago. "Can't blame me for being a lucky bitch, kiddo. Know when to fold 'em." KaBLAM! "Hell, Domino, you had him dead to rights," Roy frowns. "Did you have to..." Roy's voice trails off as Domino flashes him a -look-, and the man holds his hands up, pistols dangling on his index fingers for just a second before he snaps the safeties back on, and begins the work of wrapping up the wounded for the police automatically. Only a day, and he's -still- thinking the police did -anything- in this side of Madripoor. Really? The sound of someone coming up the stairs causes Roy to snap his head up, automatically bringing his pistols back in play, safeties sliding to off. Domino does indeed flash Roy one helluva look. "Yeah, -good idea,- kid. We'll just leave him alive with a bum shoulder so every second the pain will remind him of how badly he wants to carve into me with nothing more than dental picks. You -leave someone alive- around here and -they will kill you.-" As she scolds the archer she steps closer, heavy boots clunking against the threadbare carpeting right around the growing pools of blood. The revolver comes up once more, thumbing the hammer back with another trio of mechanical clicks, leveling it upon the man with the shot-up legs-- Only to stop at the sound of someone else coming up the stairs. It doesn't matter that her body is turned to cover up sight of the magnum filling her hand, not with a pile of fresh dead guys following a good deal of weaponsfire. Frankly, she's not that surprised to see their food being delivered as she is at the guy's nerve to still deliver it despite the bloodbath. "Take care of it," Dom tells Roy in that 'don't argue, just -do-' tone, returning her gaze to the two injured men left breathing. One can't run. One's very likely concussed. It really doesn't matter that she's only got one bullet left in the cylinder. No one here wants to be the unlucky one. It doesn't matter that Roy had -two- pistols and plenty of ammo. Just that the man didn't -shoot to kill- unless necessary. Which was going to get him killed in Madripoor if he didn't watch himself. Damn hero impulses was going to be the death of him. The pistols do -not- go off as Roy dashes down the hallway, cutting off the person on the steps. The delivery boy swallows hard, holding out his food. He -wasn't- going all the way up, not after the gunfire, but he had a job to do, and so he offers the food. "Right. Here." Tucking the guns away, Roy pays the boy, including a generous tip and a 'Don't say anything.' The boy nods, and retreats -fast-. Coming back up the stairs, the agent regards the situation and the food. "So, uh... what're we gonna do with these guys?" he asks, canting his head to look at the bodies. By the time he returns with the food, Dom's slowly rubbing her forehead with her off-hand. The magnum may as well be locked into a vise with how little it drifts from zero. This is -exactly- why she agreed to make the trip out here in the first place. Is Roy really that blind? Without her watching over him and making those shots he can't make for himself he'd become another casualty to be forgotten overnight. "We're going to get some answers. Then we're going to leave this place and not return for several weeks. I get my information, you get a slightly nicer shithole to call your own, life goes on." For some of them. The part she left out is what happens to the guys still alive once they're done. "Alright, boys. Our food has arrived and I'm way more hungry than patient. One talks, one dies. Order doesn't matter. How did you idiots know where to find us?" Blind, no. Stubbornly positive that things -could- be done without fatalities until they couldn't be avoided, yes. In Madripoor...? Roy sighs, stepping around the dead bodies, and kneeling down. "Better listen to her, boys. Unless you want to end up like your buddies there," Roy says quietly. "Let her..." "We can't tell you," the non-concussed one replies immediately, while the concussed one was still gathering his wits. "She'll kill us." -She'll- kill us. Gosh, now who around here does Domino know that knew about her taking the magnum off of one of the bar patrons, has enough invested in these two to make it work keeping track of them, and happens to be a woman? Pieces are quickly falling into place, though she keeps these pieces of info to herself. Roy doesn't need to know about this one. What happens next will remain between the two women. Girl talk. You know how it is. "You're right, I will," she promptly counters while squeezing the trigger on round number six-- KaBLAM! --into the noggin of the man with the shot-up legs. One part mercy killing, one part tactical reasoning. A man with two busted up legs is going to feel it for the rest of his life. A man with a bump on his forehead will recover within days and won't think anything of it. If one man out of this crew is going to be spared, let it be the one who will hold the smallest grudge. Of course, if it had been a seven shot revolver filling her hand then there wouldn't have been any debate. "Don't ever show yourself around us again," Dom warns the last man, holstering the emptied revolver before gathering up the fallen hardware from their former opposition. It's gonna take her all night to scrub the gore out of their guns. Slumping his shoulders, Roy glances at Domino. Intellectually, he -knows- what she's doing, and why. This was why he asked -her-. He knows it. She knows it. Now if he can just convince himself to -do- this, he wouldn't need her. But he does, and so Roy nods briefly, as the last man stumbles onto his feet, out, and away, rather than take that -last- shot. Closing the man's eyes, turning his face briefly away from Domino, Roy moves towards his soon-to-be-former apartment. At the doorstep, he pauses, turning his head towards Domino. "Coming?" he says softly. Weapons are slung across Domino's shoulders and tucked into the combat webbing surrounding her body. Some will be worth hanging onto. Some will be sold. It's an automatic equipment retrieval, the mercenary seeming to not pay attention to the way she has to peel some of them out of the clutched hands of people that she murdered only a moment ago. One more step away from humanity as a whole. Her response is wholly dispassionate, disconnected from any level of human emotion possible. "Yeah." Which one of them would Madripoor break first? An hour and eleven minutes later... Roy's been set up at a better hotel. Domino's stashed the new collection of firearms and reloaded the wheelgun at her side. Evening is starting to descend in full swing as she departs Roy's company on foot, though not without a warning. "You run into any trouble, don't fuck around. It's them, or you." The hike back to the Black Lagoon bar from the hotel isn't the safest one (and really, what part of Madripoor is safe?) For a woman with her skills, demeanor, and loadout, no one wants to take the risk. It gives her that much more time to think about how this evening is going to go down for her. Any way she looks at it, things aren't going to be pretty. Still. Much like sending those armed goons after them both, there's a point which has to be made. All that's left to determine is how violent she wants it to be. Approach the bar. Establish eye contact with Belikova. Don't yield. Be a little slow on the draw, allow her to respond in kind. When she acts, roll with it. Grab her gun, twist, wrench it out of her hand, duck back a full step to pull out of her reach, -then- finish the draw. The rest of the bar will come to her aid, nothing Dom can do there but go with it. If she wanted Beli dead she wouldn't march into her bar and wave a gun in her face. That'd just be silly. As expected, the draw is quick, and the GSh-18 pulled out of Belikova's grasp, and then the former Checkmate operative is staring down at the barrel of a Magnum. There is a moment of silence, as guns are cocked at Domino, before Belikova holds a hand up, slowly, calmly, her eyes locked onto the mercenary's eyes. "Stand down," Belikova says, her melodic voice soft and low as she brushes aside a recalicrant hair strand out of the left side of her face, exposing the full scar. Her eyes are cold, dark and brown against the sharp relief of pale skin and angry puckish burn as she reaches out a hand wordlessly for her GSh-18. This trick is only going to work once. Right now the ball's in Domino's court and she's not going to pass it easily. When Beli holds out her hand she receives nothing more than a slow shake of the merc's head. Not yet. "As a business strategy, putting hits on your resources is going to see diminishing returns. If you wanted those kids out of the way, all you had to do was put some cash on my table. Now, we have ourselves a problem. Roy still hasn't grown himself a spine, which means -I- get to handle the dirty work for -both- of us. If you want to expose him to violence around this place then have him announce last call on a Friday night, but -Stop. Fucking. With Me.-" The hand remains out, as Belikova is unmoved, her dark eyes remaining firmly locked on Domino's, her lips pursued in a thin flat line. "There was no hit, and we are not having this discussion -here-," the Russian woman says flatly. "Now give me my gun, and we will continue this discussion where my men will -not- shoot you where you stand." There is no movement from Belikova, just a flat expectation that Domino will -not- shoot. Her eyes remain cold as ice, her posture remaining exactly as it was since she first stared down at the barrel of the Magnum. Just a steel gaze locked on Domino's. One could -almost- picture a fierce Siberian wolf, teeth bared, waiting to sink its teeth at just the right moment, and it would not be out of place at -all- to swap it in the place of Vasilia Belikova. Every fiber of Domino's being says not to hand Belikova a weapon. Not her own, not someone else's. Handing over a -loaded- weapon would be suicide. There are some things one simply -does not do.- So she doesn't. With a flick of the wrist Dom ejects the GSh-18's magazine off to the side. Before it can clatter and slide across the floor she snaps the 9mm around, pulls the trigger, and clears the chamber by firing it into a bottle of liquor sitting behind the bar proper. "One discussion that we -are- having here is that you've been pushing me around, calling every last shot ever since I set foot in this shithole bar. Do you think that because he's wrapped around your little finger that I must be by proxy? I don't give two -fucks- about that man and even less toward you, and while you've been sitting on your ass serving drinks to people I've been keeping my skills in order, so do me the professional courtesy of showing me so much as an -ounce- of respect or I'll show you what kind of Hell this bitch is -really- capable of delivering." The words are punctuated by the sound of an empty Russian sidearm getting tossed onto the counter, sliding across the worn surface toward where Beli stands. While her men flinch, Belikova does not, her hand shifting from gun-demanding to halt-position, calmly and coolly. Only Domino -might- be in a position to see the sweat trickling down the left side of her face, but even then, Belikova's expression does not change. The pistol is slid across the counter... and then Belikova backhands it back up and flying towards Domino, forcing her to react to it, even as the former Checkmate operative steps to the side, reaching under her counter, and pulling out -another- GSh-18, chambered an aimed by the time the mercenary's re-oriented enough Standoff. "Upstairs, now." Point to Beli, Domino didn't expect her to backhand her own gun like that. Guns are heavy, full of sharp points. It -hurts- making contact like that! As a distraction then, it does the trick. The merc flinches, all the time that the Ruskie needs to haul out -another- one of those guns and point it at her face in turn. "Point for consistency," she says under her breath. Now they have themselves another little problem. Someone's going to have to give first. Trying to keep a gun on each other while heading upstairs is clumsy and highly impractical. If Beli loaded the PBP armor-piercing bullets designed for that very gun then her second skin isn't going to put up much of a fight. It's still a nine. If Beli shot -anywhere- other than the head or spine, Dom would have plenty of time to return the favor. Last she checked, .44 mag hollowpoints against basic clothing and zero armor is fatal. -Every time.- Prognosis: They're both up shit creek with an explosive paddle. (You've made your point, Domino. Gonna hold a gun to her all day?) With an upward twist she rolls the revolver's hammer back down, though she keeps it in her hand. There's only one other way to see this one through. Upstairs she goes. "Belikova," one of the men begin, before being met with a withering gaze, the Russian woman offended about the indication that she couldn't -deal- with one of the most dangerous women alive. Belikova shifts, keeping the pistol up, as she comes out from behind the counter, picking up both magazine and the backhanded pistol. Engaging in a -very- slow movement, as Domino climbs up the stairs backwards with her gun at ready, Belikova waits until she's at the top of the steps before moving on upwards herself, never wavering in her steady aim even as she keeps climbing the stairs. "The conference room," Belikova says as she's half-way up the stairs. Domino knows the room- the card game was there. The slow movement from stairs to conference room as they keep their guns fixed on each other... Domino gets to enter first, and then Belikova follows, closing the door behind her, the fox woman and the she-wolf pacing each other slowly. As the door closes, Belikova slides, first, the empty gun and the magazine into the middle of the table, eyes never leaving Domino. "On three..." she says slowly. Three. Two. One. The loaded GSh-18 slides to the middle of the table. "Now talk." Oh, what fun these little games are that they play... It's like slow-motion dancing. Every movement one of grace, precision, and economy. Considering the alternatives are to shoot first or die first, Domino's willing to put up with it, for a time. The air around the two is tense enough to cause stress injuries. After another mini-eternity it comes down to another uneasy truce as a six inch barreled magnum slides out across the table when the count is made. She's still in possession of three others, but they remain holstered. "Housewarming party, six men strong. Automatic weapons. One of them the previous owner of that very gun," she declares with a quick motion to the revolver. "Barely got through the door before they tried their hit. Somehow they knew exactly where to find us. Not an ounce of patience in the lot of 'em, and I know how to cover my own tracks." "Here's the thing," Dom presses. "They refused to talk, on count of some threat that another woman would kill them if they did. You're the only psychopathic bitch left that I know in these parts and those boys came right off the floor of your bar. Your odds aren't looking too good, Beli." Hand it to Vasilia Belikova, she remains cool under pressure. No wonder they had her as a Checkmate handler for field agents. The worst that Domino might notice are worry lines around her thinly pressed lips. "I am not responsible for what these men -might- think about a mutant mercenary with luck powers possibly using her powers during card games." The words are cool, even with the dulcet tone of Vasilia Belikova's voice. "But," the Russian woman goes on. "hypothetically speaking, how would -they- know where to find you, if you have covered your tracks so well?" Oh look, Domino's reputation precedes her. Beli's done her homework, good for her. It would be a bigger cause for concern if she hadn't. "No, you're not. But you -would- be responsible for them coming after me out of fear of their own lives. You're also one of a very few number of people that I would credit with being able to keep tabs on Roy and I, including resorting to murder if they didn't follow orders. Unless you have some -very- compelling evidence against this, you had the knowledge to motivate them and tell them where to go. Their own vendetta against me would have made them obvious choices for a strike team. What I -don't- get is that you had to have known it would end badly for them. You sent those men to die. What for?" A thin smile, then. "But as you say, I -do- know the two of you," Belikova says softly. "I would choose a much stronger group to send against -you-, if that were the case. Give me credit for that, if nothing else." Her eyes remain fixed, steel will against Domino's gaze. Her point -was- true. She would not send a group like this against the world's most dangerous mercenary. "So, as you say... why -would- I send these men to die?" "Listen you bitch, if you're going to waste my time by repeating what I say then our friendly little conversation is over," Domino nearly growls. "You sent them to make a point. I could pull several off the top of my head but I didn't come back here and point a gun in your face just to --sonuvabitch." Beli already answered the question. She wouldn't have sent those simpletons after Dom. Which means she -didn't.- A waste of resources is a waste of resources. She sent them after Roy. "Whatever you're trying to accomplish with our uninitiated pal? I'm really not enjoying being left with the cleanup." She could think of a way to push Roy into murder, but she's not about to offer such an idea. It includes Domino, in a capacity which she'd much rather not be a part of. Oh, Madripoor. There are still some sides to you that she would surgically remove if it were only possible. The steely facade softens -just- a bit as Domino makes that connection, and the Siberian wolf posture eases a bit, though the indomitable will remains in her voice. "He's not ready for Madripoor. Here, the strong survive, the weak perish. If he can't make it here, he should stick to the -dream- world he wants to establish for his daughter." Brown orbs harden into a steel gaze. "And if you don't enjoy being clean-up, you -could- leave him to me. Leave. Find a better offer. After all, if money is what you crave... then money you should seek elsewhere. What did he offer -you- that you remain, mercenary?" It would appear that these two ladies finally have something they can agree upon. "No, he isn't." As far as Dom's concerned, Roy has no place here. He has no reason -to- be here. By all counts, he should not be here. Therein lies the problem. Could she convince him to leave? Probably not. He's got something he has to do around here, for whatever reason. It's this reason which keeps her here. He wouldn't make it without her, which her conscience won't allow to happen. Not when she has the power to keep him in one piece. Physically, that is. Mentally, Madripoor has him now. "I stick by him for the same reason you keep me around when it'd be easier to push me away or put a price on my head." Greater returns. Turning her back to Domino, leaving the table with the weapons to the mercenary, Belikova heads for the liquor bar. "Vodka?" she asks, pouring herself a tumbler's worth. Returning with the requested drink for Domino, Belikova clears the table of the weapons carelessly, letting them fall to the ground so that she can make room for the -proper- thing, bottles of vodka and of whatever Domino requests, and the glasses. "Too much trouble to not keep an eye on him?" Belikova smirks, though her eyes do not match the humor. Lifting a glass, Belikova toasts. "To Madripoor. Polnyi pizdets." Everything's fucked up. After lowering the tumbler, Belikova cants her head to eye Domino. "Madripoor haunts us in different ways. It's why I came here. It's why he signed up when he could. It's a place for the misfits." Drinking, one of life's simple pleasures. After the day that Domino's had, it's also her best escape. "Yeah." A full conversation made up of nothing more than two words and a couple of glasses. As much as she'd like to deny Beli's words, they're spot-on accurate. "Some days I wonder how he managed to stay alive before dropping himself into my life," she admits with a weary sigh. "I can't keep hanging around trying to get him to stand on his own feet around here." Therein lies the problem. She can't let things take their natural course, and yet they -have- to if he's ever going to strengthen his spine. "Potom my vse partii v ad," she replies with a lift of the glass, taking a drink. 'Then we all party in Hell.' "Yeah, I get it for us, but it doesn't make sense with him. Is he actively looking to be haunted by something? Is he here because of you? He's delusional at times, but he's not a misfit." He's doing a -job.- SHIELD should have sent someone better suited for the place. "I'm going to be here for a while, Belikova. Not for you, not for him. Truth is, I barely trust anyone in this asshole of a city. I don't see us operating together by selective ignorance, so we've got two options on the table. We could come to an arrangement and work together, you've got leads and I enjoy getting paid, or we can wait for the next clash and wind up destroying each other." Wouldn't be the first time she signed up with someone she didn't particularly trust. "He hasn't told you?" Belikova allows a soft chuckle to escape her lips. "Of course not. Checkmate knows. SHIELD knows. You wouldn't, not a mercenary." Lifting up the glass to study the transparency of the vodka, Belikova's harsh gaze settles on Domino once again. "He's an arsenal. Physically, he's capable. Mentally... he's got the motivation. But in his heart, he's still that -damn- hero his mentor raised him to be." "But you and I know, there's no such things as heroes here. There's the best... and then there's the rest." A dark burst of laughter escape her lips, and is quickly smothered by a shot of burning vodka. Wiping her lips with her hands, Belikova pours another fingerful, and then offers to pour Domino another drink. "See, here's the thing. Harper's here to -chase- leads on the drug trade, the gun trade, and maybe chasing ghosts from his past. He's got a daughter, and he's bound to try and keep her life clean and pure, so he'll mess himself up doing so. That's how stubborn he'll be. He just keeps toeing the line and hasn't gone over." "So he signs up with me, and he keeps chasing leads. Now, I can give him leads to keep him -alive- for his daughter..." Harsh brown eyes lifts towards Domino, assessing her. "Or I can throw him into what he -wants-, if I can trust you to keep him alive." A short bark. "And if you're like him, I can even give you leads into whatever Madripoor did to fuck you up that you -stay- here." "He hasn't," Domino admits. "Though I don't tell him shit, either." Although Beli sure seems to know a lot more than the merc had anticipated. No wonder she gets called 'Contact.' Info on everything, and everyone. A good ally to have, so long as one has the strength and tenacity to tame this Ruskie wildcard. "So SHIELD puts him on the job and you keep him running in circles chasing vapor in order to keep him alive," she summarizes while having her glass get refilled. "Damned humanitarian of you, Beli. There must be something about the guy that you like to have not fed him to the wolves." Her, keep Roy alive for the -big- stuff? "Here's the thing," Dom starts in while settling into an open chair. "I'm also an opportunity seeker. I'm out here, keeping his ass out of the fryer, sure. You're not willing to lead him to the next stage of this operation unless he's protected. Protection is a service which I can provide. But, now we're well outside of 'neighborly assistance' and well into the realm of paid contract work. I can keep the kid alive, but if we're raising the stakes then I'm not going to do it for free." How badly did Beli want Roy to take care of these problem areas? Enough to let him get killed and leave Lian without a father, or enough to sign Dom onto the payroll? The latter sounds like a proper 'understanding' to her. "He worked for me when I was Checkmate. And like I told you, I -always- take care of -my- men," Belikova says coldly, as she swigs the vodka down, before putting the tumbler down, the glass tinkling against the table. "And so we come to it," Belikova says. "You want a contract. On a mission to mission basis, correct? Coming and going as you need to. Harper -knew- what he was doing when he asked for you, that bastard." A few swear words in Russian, before Belikova nods at Domino. "God help me. God help you. We will do this." Pouring one last tumbler of vodka for the two, Belikova lifts it to Domino. "We will drink to this, and then we will break this glass against the wall, and let the devil take us." Category:Log